Oh Father Remove this Cup From Me
by keepcalmsmile
Summary: John Winchester meets Bobby Singer three months after The Fire. There is cursing, drinking, and awkward caring for two traumatized children. Then Bobby asks a question that redefines John's life. (Previously called Mine Eyes Have Seen)
1. Chapter 1: Who Art Thou?

**Father, Remove this Cup From Me**

"Who Art Thou, My Son?"

* * *

And he came unto his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here am I; who art thou, my son?"

Genesis 27:18

* * *

It was an old, irascible hunter by the name of Bobby Singer who said it first. A friend of a friend of Missouri's had given me the address, claiming this man to be the closest thing to an Encyclopedia for hunters, and that was before he started opening his books.

The house was a decrepit dump, the man even more so. In the three months since The Fire, I had realized the men and women fighting these bastards were the forgotten remnants of society's rejects, which only made them more lethal.

That being said…this drunkard…the holy grail of knowledge about the nightmares that hid in the dark?

I nearly climbed right back into the Impala, but the man was already hollering curses and waving a shot gun in my face, and it was damn freezing, Dean had barely spoken five sentences since The Fire, Sammy hadn't stopped fussing for the past three-hundred miles, and I was no closer to finding the son-of-a-bitch who had set my life ablaze. The drunk bum whom I had driven four hundred miles to see was still spitting curses in my face, and I was either going break down sobbing or start hollering back, so I started hollering, and we kept shouting at each other until we were both going hoarse and the man finally stopped mid-curse and said, in a voice that was gruff but suddenly, inexplicably calm, "Feelin' better?"

I stared stupidly at him for a moment, and was just about ready to start into another stream of curses when the man said in the same matter-of-fact voice, "I would keep on goin', sure looks like you could use another fifteen minutes or so of pointless shouting, but your kid in there's screamin' up a storm, and I doubt your little boy knows how to handle it."

I turned to look and, sure enough, I could just make out Sammy's wails over the sound of the South Dakota wind.

"Damn it," I grunted because what kind of father leaves his two small sons in the car in February so he can have a shouting match with a pot-bellied red-neck?

"It's alright," Bobby grunts, "They're bundled up, and your oldest just put another blanket on that baby. You might as well come in, we can shout again later." With that, he walked past me towards the Impala. I tensed and instinctively outpaced him. Pulling the door open, I was immediately overwhelmed by Sammy's howls.

"Come on out, Dean!" I called.

Dean frowned and shook his head. His pudgy hand was clasped around Sammy's fingers.

"I'll get him, come on out! We're going to stay with Mr. Singer for a while."

Bobby grunted in amusement—presumably at being called 'Mr. Singer' "Do you want me to carry your older one in, keep him out of the snow?"

I hesitated. No one besides me had touched my boys since that night…barely even the EMTs at the scene. The look on Bobby's face told me he knew that. I glanced from the man, to Dean, to the 18 inches of snow, and back to Bobby. Then I nodded. "Come here, Dean," I said, pulling the boy out of the back of the car, "Go see Mr. Singer for a bit, okay?"

Dean frowned when I handed him to the Bobby, who held him in a secure, albeit slightly uncomfortable, grip, but did not object.

"Hey there, kid," Bobby grunted. Dean scowled and turned his attention back to the car…to Sammy.

He was still wailing when I pulled him out of his car seat, remembering at the last second to grab the diaper bag before slamming the door shut. Bobby did not wait another instant—the wind was picking up and I was finally realizing that it wasn't just damn cold…it was _damn freezing_ , so I matched Bobby's brisk pace as we marched into house.

The interior of Bobby's house was just and dingy and decrepit as the outside, but when I looked carefully, I also saw the weapons stashed strategically in every corner, the piles of books that lay beneath the whiskey bottles, and the strange markings painted on the ceiling.

"Devil's trap?" I confirmed, glancing at the circular inscription painted on the ceiling above my head.

"You're catching on," Bobby said as he made his way into the kitchen, "Would you like some hot cocoa, kid?" he asked as he set Dean down.

Dean's face lit up, but he turned to me with wide, eager eyes.

"Go ahead, Dean," I said as I unbuttoned Sammy's coat. He was fussing less now, obviously wanting out of the car more than anything. He was probably due for a diaper change, though.

"There's some cold pizza in the fridge," Bobby said, "You can fill up on that until the hot chocolate's done."

Dean didn't need to be told twice; he wrenched the door open, pulled out the box with his two small hands like it was a precious jewel, set it on the table, got up on a chair, and started eating.

I had forgotten how much kids sometimes ate: I hadn't been hungry in months.

"There's a spare bedroom upstairs," Bobby said, still intent on the small pot of milk he was heating on the stove, "I figure we get your boys tucked away, then we'll have a proper talk. It'll take a while, and it isn't really for small ears."

I nodded, even though there's no way Bobby could see me. My throat was clenched uncomfortably, and I couldn't tell if it was because I was grateful to the man or because I was pissed with both of us that a drunk hermit seemed more capable of caring for my children than me. But Dean was chewing happily and gave Bobby a genuine smile when a cup of steaming cocoa was placed in front of him. Sammy was finally able to have his diaper changed somewhere besides the back of the Impala, and Bobby's expression when he set a beer on the table in front of me wasn't condescending. It was a lot the looks my buddies and I exchanged when we were under fire … when we both knew we were in hell, but we were in it together, and that counted for something.

I damn near broke down right there. Fortunately, Sam took that moment to make it clear that _yes he was hungry too_ , and the tears had to be put on hold in favor of putting together a bottle.

Two hours later the boys were fed, bathed, and sleeping contentedly in Bobby's spare bedroom, Dean's arm slung around Sam's little body, as had become their custom over the past three months. I even told them a story, a short one, but Dean's shy smile had been real.

"Now," Bobby said as he sat down at a desk in the living room, motioned for me to join him, and poured us both generous shots of whiskey, "Let's talk. Tell me what you saw."

"You know, don't you?" I grunted, taking a sip of whiskey. Cheap, but strong: I had a feeling that was what we both preferred.

"I've heard rumors," Bobby admitted, "Stories of what happened have been spreading like wildfire among hunters."

"Why?"

"Why?" Bobby repeated incredulously, "Because nothing like this…nothing as audaciously _evil_ as this has happened for as long as any of us can remember. Things that hide in the dark like to do just that….stay hidden. Sure, they want to spread chaos and violence, but not so much that the general public will become aware of what's happening. So for anything to be powerful enough to do something so blatantly evil and not even be afraid of the consequences…it's got a lot of us more than a little nervous." He leaned forward, "I know right now the hate and the guilt is about all there is in your world right now, outside of your boys, but this thing is a hell of a lot bigger than you. Now…tell me everything that happened."

I took a deep, shuddering breath and another gulp of whiskey. Whoever says this type of story gets easier with each telling is a liar, but Bobby's the first person since Missouri who seemed like he actually might be able to help, so I opened my mouth and let the words spill out.

Bobby didn't try to interrupt, he just looked solemnly at me until my voice finally trailed off and I drained the last of my whiskey.

"Do you know what did it?" I asked as he refilled both our glasses.

"No," he admitted, "I have a couple of books we can take a look at, but I doubt we'll find anything."

"It has to be somewhere," I growled, " _Something_ did it, and there's gotta be a way to kill it."

"I'm not arguing with you," Bobby said, "I'm just saying, whatever bastard did this is above most hunters' pay grades, and definitely above yours."

"Are you saying I let the bastard go?" My fingers clenched around the glass. Bobby wouldn't be the first man I'd hit recently, but I had just enough sense (just enough of Mary) left in me to hold back…for now.

"I'm saying unless you're smart about this, your boys are going to end up orphans," Bobby hissed, "Now I know all you can think about is killing this thing, and I'm not saying you shouldn't, but if you think you'll be able to hunt this bastard in a couple of weeks and then go back to living a normal life, you're fooling yourself!"

"I don't care how long it takes."

"You mean that?" And damn, someone who'd downed as much whiskey in the past five hours as this man had should not be able to glare like that. "Twenty, thirty _years_ down the line, will you still be working to kill this thing?"

I remembered the scorching heat of fire on my face, Dean's sad, eyes and deafening silence, how Sammy would never remember the look of Mary's face or the sound of her voice. I remembered my last glimpse of my wife, her eyes dead and empty and in pain . . . and the moment I realized I would never see those eyes again.

"I will do _whatever_ it takes."

For a long moment, Bobby narrowed his eyes and didn't respond. Finally, he sighed, "Alright," he said, "The first thing we need to decide is what this thing is."

"I thought you said you didn't know."

"I don't," Bobby agreed, "But we can figure out some of the things it ain't."

"It's not a spirit," I murmured, "Missouri seemed sure of that."

"She's not often wrong," Bobby agreed, "Besides, a ghost wouldn't destroy the place it's haunting. It could be some type of monster…but not one I've ever heard of."

"You saying we need to look in some of those books you mentioned."

"Probably," Bobby agreed, "But for now, I think it's safe to guess you're probably dealing with some type of demon."

"A demon," I murmured, and the word rang true. Surely only something from the pits of hell would be able to make my life a living version of the place that, until recently, I had not believed in. "How do you kill one?"

"You don't," Bobby said frankly, "The most any hunter can do is exorcise it…send it back to hell."

"Not good enough."

"John," Bobby's sigh was tired and sad. I'd seen that look too, in weary generals and shattered boys with ancient eyes, "You can't kill the most low-level demon, much less this thing. I'm not sure it can even be exorcised properly."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember what I said about the amount of power that thing must have had to attack you the way it did? Now demons are evil sons of bitches that love to spread death and chaos whenever they can, but they try to keep things quiet…possess someone here, make a deal for someone's soul there, but what this thing did…I haven't heard of a demon doing anything this big in decades. Demons are evil, but whatever attacked your family is far beyond plain evil." Bobby sighed, "Which begs the question, what was it doing in your son's nursery?"

"What?" I tried to sound gruff and belligerent, but I'm pretty sure the strangled sound that forced its way out of my throat sounded much more like Dean's terrified squeak…back when Dean spoke.

"I mean it. What they hell was something like that doing in your kid's bedroom?"

"You aren't seriously suggesting I had anything to do with this," I growled, finally regaining use of my voice. Human encyclopedia or no, I would knock this man out if he kept up this sort of talk.

"No," Bobby said, "I've already tested you and your boys for demonic possession…I lace all my food with holy water," he explained, in response to my furious glare, "But that don't answer the question. What did that demon want with your son?"

"Nothing," I protested breathlessly. If this man, this _expert_ was very close to voicing the same, paranoid nightmares that hounded me to sleep every night . . . that made them less of the terrified ramblings of a grief-stricken widower and much more the cold reality. "Perhaps it wanted Mary," I whispered, hating myself for even saying it, for considering _this_ the better alternative, "Maybe it came for Mary."

"Maybe," Bobby acquiesced, "But that raises another sticky issue … why is Sam even alive?"

I launched to my feet, sending the chair clattering to the floor, and leaned toward him. "The hell are you implying?"

"I'm sorry to bring it up," Bobby met my eyes unflinchingly, "But if that demon really wanted to kill Mary, why did it leave Sam alive? If it had started that fire even seconds before you got there, it would have been too late."

"It had no reason to touch Sam,"

"No reason to leave him alive, either," Bobby said gently, "And demons kill for fun."

"Stop it," I growled, resisting the urge to run up to the boys' room, clutch Sammy to my chest and never, ever let him go.

"If the demon wanted Mary," continued, "Why didn't he find her in her room? Why'd he wait for her to go to Sam?"

"Shut. Up." My face was inches from the hermit now.

"I'm sorry, John, but we need to look at all the options. We need to consider that the demon was not after Mary, but that for some reason, it wanted Sam, and it might still want him."

He had said it, the only words that could still mangle my hellish world, given life to the thought that would not leave my mind, but that I refused to allow myself to consider. Now, it was inescapable, cold and hard and permanent, as if there was a third person in the room.

I believed in trusting my gut, but this truth was simply too hard to accept, "If it wanted Sammy, why didn't it kill him?"

"I don't know," Bobby admitted, "But demons, especially very powerful ones, are smart…geniuses even. They can create plans that take decades, even centuries, to play out." He sighed again, "Look, I'm not one for crying wolf when it ain't there…I figure there's enough evil in the world before we start making up our own, but I'm telling ya to be careful and to watch out for those boys of yours…especially Sam."

I nodded, because there wasn't really anything left to say…all the fear and guilt and pain was distilling into a bitter wine I could not refuse.

Mary was half a thought away, my need to avenge her a constant fire in my blood, but my boys . . . they were my oxygen.

Some demonic son of a bitch had killed my wife; I was never going to let him lay a finger on my sons.

Dean's arm was still tucked tightly around little Sammy when I entered the room. I stood there for a moment, watching the steady in and out of their breathing.

Breathing in unison, actually; I couldn't help but smile at that.

Sam had become Dean's security blanket from the moment I shoved the infant into his arms and screamed for him to get out of the house. Dean had apparently taken that to mean he should _never_ let Sam go. Tonight, however, I needed to hold my baby boy. I tried to gently unwrap Dean's arms from around Sam's small body, but Dean's grip only tightened and his eyes flew open, "No!" It was his first word of the day.

"Shhh, Dean," I whispered, "It's Dad. Everything's okay. I'm just going to take Sammy for a bit, okay?"

Dean frowned, "Sleepin'" he muttered.

"I know he's sleeping," I smiled, "Don't worry, I'll be careful not to wake him."

The frown deepened, but Dean withdrew his arm from around Sam's waist, "Kay."

"Thanks, bud," I said, wondering vaguely when I started needing a four-year-old's permission to hold my own son, but I carefully scooped Sam up and rested him against my chest. He stirred a little, and for a second I worried that I actually _would_ wake him, but he just settled his head against my chest, pressing his little ear just above my heart.

Mary had once said babies liked hearing peoples' heart beats. It supposedly reminded them of their time in the womb. The thought makes my throat close up a little.

I got into the other bed, propping my head against the headboard in an uncomfortable half-sitting, half-laying position that wasn't exactly conducive to sleeping, but I wasn't tired anyway. I sat on the bed, staring into the blackness while Sammy slept to the sound of my heart beat and feeling the expansion and contraction of his small chest.

I gently rubbed my thumb over one of Sammy's tiny hands. Everything about him was small and precious and _innocent_. Four months ago, I would have said that a moment like this was heavenly . . . a brief respite from the mundane madness of the real world.

I knew better now.

I knew that _this,_ the feel of his lungs expanding and contracting, the tiny thud of his heart, the irrefutable knowledge that my son was alive, that he was _safe_ was a necessity . . . the only necessity. Until the Fire, and in some ways, until tonight, I assumed my duty as a parent was to provide for my boys, teach them right from wrong, and help them become good men with college degrees and jobs and families of their own.

In reality, my sole duty was to keep my sons alive, to keep them breathing from one day to the next, to protect them from darkness and monsters and whatever the demon wanted from them…wanted from _Sam_. I needed to keep the boys alive. Anything else was a bonus.

One thing was certain, I could not keep my boys alive, could not teach them to keep themselves alive, in a cookie cutter house in suburbia. They needed to be strong: Marine strong, hunter strong, strong in a way I wasn't…not yet anyway.

I didn't feel the tear until it nearly reached my chin, but in the darkness I found I couldn't care enough to wipe it away. There was no one to hide them from, and in this one moment, this black minute in time where I silently traded my old dreams for my boys, dreams of Boy Scouts and Prom and College and wives and grandchildren for hiding and training and fighting and all the things I never wanted for them, that I knew Mary never wanted for them, I could forgive my tears.

But they would live.

I felt something tugging at my arm and lash out my fist instinctively, stopping just before it connected with Dean's face.

I didn't know if Dean's eyes were wide and afraid before, but they certainly were now.

"Sorry, Dean," I said, relaxing my fist and instead laying my arm around Dean's shoulders. Dean relaxed a little, but the wide-eyed look did not go away, "I didn't see you," I offered pathetically.

Dean did not respond; he just looked meaningfully at me, at the bed, at Sammy.

I sighed, "Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?"

Without even bothering to nod, Dean clambered into the bed and tried to slide under the blanket. I hadn't bothered with it, but I stood up—taking care not to startle Sam awake- and let Dean climb under the covers. Once he was settled, I climbed in after him and carefully laid Sammy in between us, pulling the ratty quilt up to his armpits. "Just tonight," I said, "Tomorrow you sleep in your own bed." Dean nodded, wrapped his arm around the sleeping baby, and closed his eyes. I turned on my side—facing the boys and the door-and wrapped my arm above their heads, so that my fingertips were barely brushing Dean's shoulder.

I laid there for a few minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of my boys' chests, listening to the sounds of their breathing, assuring myself over and over that _yes they are okay they are alive they are safe_.

I looked at my sons, safe and wrapped in each others' arms, and knew I was looking at the only thing in the universe that mattered.

"Just tonight," I repeated. Just tonight to let my boys sleep my bed, to let them be just kids, to let myself be just Dad. Just tonight to mourn the futures Mary and I had always imagined for them, the ones they would never have. Just tonight to cry.

Tomorrow the training would begin. We would stay with Bobby for a while. I needed to learn everything I could, about survival, about _hunting_ from him. Then we would set out on our own. Tomorrow the tears would end, and the battle would begin.

Tomorrow I needed to teach Dean to shoot a 22.

* * *

If you made it to the end, thank you for reading!

This series will track the evolution of John's relationship with himself, hunting, and, most importantly, his sons, in a series of stand-alone one-shots. I will play with Christian themes a little as I do so, but hopefully in a way that is respectful to people of any, or no, faith.

The verse in Genesis is from the story of Jacob and Esau, when Jacob disguised himself as his brother Esau in order to receive a greater blessing from their father, Isaac. Isaac is blind and does not recognize his son, and he is horrified when he later learns who Jacob really is.


	2. Chapter 2: Divided

**Father Remove This Cup From Me**

"Divided"

* * *

The father shall be divided against the son, and the son against the father.

Luke 12:53

* * *

"Dad?" Dean spoke for the first time in the nearly three-hour drive after a simple (for once) salt-and-burn. Actually, last week we finished the black dog that had brought us here for the past two weeks, but Dean had stumbled on this a day or two later.

He'd been doing that more and more, finding ways to prolong our stay in a given place. It wasn't for his benefit.

Sammy, of course, was more than happy to skip the salt-and-burn (also Dean's idea) and go to school. I swore I was the only parent whose child got pissed when I took him _out_ of class.

"Dad?" Dean repeated, reeling me back in.

"Yes, Dean?" I sighed. Hopefully, the kid would spit out whatever's been bothering him all day. Instead of overwhelming me with a constant stream of conversation, he had been silent and broody since breakfast…much more like his brother, who entered the angsty preteen stage two years early.

Dean hesitated, "Actually, forget about it."

"Dean, spill."

"It's not important," Dean insisted, far too quickly.

" _Dean!"_

Once again, Dean stayed silent, and I was ready to snap at him again when he finally said, barely loud enough for me to hear, "How much do you love us, Dad?"

I blinked. Out of all the things I thought would fall from my oldest son's mouth, that had to be the least expected. "Little bit old to be seeking constant verbal validation, don't you think?"

"Yea," Dean sighed, "You're right. Sorry I brought it up."

The resignation in his voice made me glance at him. Dean's turned away from me, head pressed against the base of the window, and I could just make out his troubled frown in the reflection's glass.

The Father reminded me that even if this kid is already on his way to being nearly as good of a hunter as I am, he was still only thirteen, barely a teenager. A little encouragement—in moderation—was healthy.

I sighed again; outright declarations of love were never my strong suit, even with Mary. I couldn't remember the last time I said the words "I love you," to Dean.

The Father dryly noted that might be a problem.

"The thing is," I said slowly, "I don't usually try to tell you and Sam how much I love you because I know that I won't be able to find words good enough to say it."

There. That should be more than enough to hold back at least several months' worth of teenage angst.

Sure enough, Dean lifted his head and turned to look at me. Good. Maybe we can finally talk about something…three hours of silence gets boring.

"Does that mean you love us more than the entire world?"

"Sure, Dean. If that kind of sentimental crap will make you feel better…I love you more than the entire world."

"No, Dad, I mean it. Do you love us more than the entire world?"

There was something in his voice again, a depth and a seriousness that I honestly forgot Dean was capable of beneath his I-don't-give-a-crap attitude. I spared him another glance; his green eyes were staring intently at me, both desperate and demanding.

I realized, far, far too late, that this was much more than teenage angst.

"I'm not sure I understand your question," I said slowly.

Dean huffed impatiently, "I _mean,_ if you had to choose between saving the entire world, or saving me and Sammy, what would you do?"

I drew in a sharp breath. Nothing could be simple with either of these boys. Ever. So of course, Dean wasn't seeking some stupid type of validation. I knew what he was really asking, and I'd rather go against a dozen demons than answer.

"What kind of stupid-ass question is that?" I demand.

"S'not stupid," Dean objected, and of course, he was right, "With what you do, with what you have us do, you must have thought about it."

I sometimes forgot that while he long ago decided he was stupid compared to the genius that was Sam Winchester, Dean was actually a sharp tool himself. Unless a monster attacked us in the next ten seconds, I was going to be answering this question.

I waited ten seconds, just in case. But Winchesters were never that lucky.

I sucked in another deep breath, "No, Dean, I wouldn't."

Dean nodded, as if he was expecting that, but the way his shoulder slumped, and how he leaned his head against the window and stared out at the lifeless landscape screamed disappointment.

Obviously.

"Dean," I said. He ignored me. "Dean!" I ordered.

Always the good soldier, Dean snapped his head towards me. He just looked like he wanted to kill me too.

"You have to understand that if I need to go to hell a dozen times over to save you or Sam, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"I know."

"But there are millions of other fathers who would do the exact same thing for their sons, and they don't know what we know, so it's our responsibility…"

"Our responsibility is to family, always," Dean grunted.

My throat closed. I was the one who told him that, a thousand times over.

The Hunter reminded me "Could you really live with yourself, Dean?" I sighed, "If you knew that six billion people had died instead of you? Would that be better?"

"Better for Sam," Dean grunted.

"I'm pretty sure he'd disagree with you, Dean."

"Yea well, at least he'd be around to be pissed."

"But then are you really saving him for his sake, or for yours?" I'm a bastard for pushing the issue, I know, but if Dean was going to ask . . .

"Then how many people," I ignored the usually unforgivable edge in Dean's voice (I deserved it), "How many people is Sam worth?"

"Dean . . ."

"No, I mean it Dad!" and Dean must have been taking pissyness lessons from his brother, because he _never_ acted out this way before, "Because I can't think of a time when you'll be choosing between the whole world for him," –he didn't include himself—"But I can sure as hell think of times when you'll have to choose between two people, or five, or ten, or a hundred, and him, and I just need to know how many people he's worth!"

Well . . . shit. The kid had handed me a rope and I'd damned well hung myself with it. The Father in me wondered when this question had become hard. Hadn't I started this to protect these boys –to protect _Sam—_ and now . . .

"This discussion is over," I growled, might as well salvage what I could from this disastrous conversation.

"But _Dad_ . . ."

"DEAN! This conversation is _over!_ "

Dean snapped to the back of his seat, and turned to stare back out of the window, taut with fury.

It made me the worst father in existence, but I welcomed the silence.

* * *

The verse in Luke is from one of Christ's sermons, when he is commanding people to follow him, while simultaneously warning of the debates and division that will emerge because of his teachings.


	3. Chapter 3: Offering

**Father, Remove This Cup From Me**

"Offering"

* * *

7 And Isaac spake unto Abraham his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here _am_ I, my son. And he said, Behold the fire and the wood: but where _is_ the lamb for a burnt offering?

8 And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering: so they went both of them together.

9 And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood.

10 And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.

Genesis 22:7-10

* * *

"Sam asleep?" Bobby asked, pouring a shot of whiskey into a glass and handing it to me.

"Sam kicked me out," I said drily, accepting the glass with a sigh and collapsing into the chair opposite Bobby.

"Kid just about got sliced to pieces. He's probably due a little license to be pissed."

"Which is why I left." I couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of my voice. Despite Sam's vocal, and Bobby's more subtle, questioning of my choices, I did sometimes actually know how to be a father.

"I'm sorry," Bobby said, as if he was reading my mind (and honestly, sometimes I wondered if there wasn't some low-key psychic ability rattling in that drunken brain). "We've all had a good scare. We all deserve a little slack."

A vivid image of Sam, chained to a chair, blood flowing from a dozen different wounds on his arms, legs, and torso, a demon wearing the suit of a forty-year-old insurance agent standing over him, bloody knife in hand, skewered through my thoughts.

Dean had pounced with a feral growl, armed with his fists, a flask full of holy water, and twenty-one years of overprotectiveness while I performed the exorcism. It was over quickly enough. Especially since, while the demon landed a few good blows, I could tell she wasn't actually fighting.

The rest was a desperate ER run as Dean tried keep Sam from bleeding out in the backseat of the Impala, more stitches than I wanted to think about without another couple more shots, and crashing at Bobby's to give Sam time to recover.

I swallowed the whiskey and helped myself to some more, "Sam's more or less healed up. Dean can remove the stitches in the morning and we'll be on our way."

"More or less," Bobby echoed, draining his own glass and pouring himself another, "The kid started walking himself to the bathroom a couple of days ago."

"It could have been worse." I could feel Bobby's darkening glare as a stared into my glass, but the whiskey, combined with copious amounts of alcohol I'd drunk throughout the day, not to mention the blind panic I'd been feeling since Sam had disappeared, made it all but impossible to give a damn.

"I don't wanna know what you think of as worse," Bobby said coolly, "But from where I sit it looked like Sam was doing a pretty good impression of Jesus's bleeding from every pour."

"He should be dead," I said, draining my glass to force back the bile creeping up my throat.

"Well then thank God, he ain't."

A low, desperate sound that mostly resembled a laugh forced its way up my throat, along with some more bile, "Pretty sure we don't have God to thank, Singer."

"What the hell are you saying, John?" Bobby pulled the whiskey away before I could pour some more.

"I mean I'm pretty sure it was the opposite of God keeping Sam safe."

"You and I need to have a conversation about the meaning of the word _safe_ , Winchester."

"That's the part of that sentence you find important?" I shot back.

Bobby hesitated a couple seconds before speaking, "No, I think the rest of it's damn important, but "safe" is the part I think you're not thinking about."

"You think I don't care about keeping my sons safe!" I said, jumping to my feet and towering over the man.

"Sit back down, Winchester," Bobby sounded annoyed more than anything, "And mind your voice. I don't want you waking those boys."

I obeyed, albeit with a low, dark growl. What the fuck did this man know?

"Now," Bobby said, pouring both of us more whiskey, "What did you find the two weeks you've been away that's got you freaked to hell?"

I ignored the subtle censure, mostly because I deserved it. I _had_ turned around and left less than half an hour after dropping the boys off at Bobby's. Even Dean seemed incredulous.

"You're not gonna stay with him?" he had asked.

"I've gotta make sure the demon that came after your brother won't turn up again."

Dean hadn't like that answer, but he accepted it. Bobby hadn't say anything, but I could feel his dark glare ten miles out of Sioux Falls. Neither of them told me what Sam said when he woke up; I suppose I had no right to know.

I dismissed the memories. What I'd done had been necessary. Bobby would see that now.

"A couple minutes before Dean called saying Sam hadn't come home from school," I began slowly, "I found this on the front shield of the Impala."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small piece of paper I'd been opening, reading, and rereading every hour since Sam went missing. It was already creased and leathery, but the words were plenty legible when I slid it across the table to Bobby.

"Picked up Sammy from school today," Bobby read slowly, "Just wanted to introduce myself." He hesitated, "Is that written in . . ."

"Blood," I answered dully, "Sam's, I'd guess."

A low string of curses streamed from Bobby's mouth like a hiss.

I didn't want to think about some black-eyed bastard using my boy as an ink-well, so I pressed on, "You know what this means, don't you, Singer?"

Bobby folded up the paper, obviously trying not to look at the words too carefully, and slid it back across the table to me, "I know what you think it means."

"And that is?"

Bobby spoke slowly, as if he felt he had to say the words, but wanted more than anything not to, "You think that whatever took Sam is connected to what killed Mary, and you think he's gonna come after him again."

I glared at the old man, "You're saying it like it's a damn stupid idea. I'll remind you that you're the one who first . . ."

"I'm the one who first put that together for you. Yea, I remember."

"And . . ."

"And dammit, John that's what scares the hell out of me!" Bobby hissed—ever mindful of the sleeping boys—"Because you told me all those years ago you wanted to do this to save your boy, and now you're telling me he should be dead and that you think he's been marked as one of hell's favorites . . . just because of some note any grunt demon could have left to yank you around!"

"Don't you think I know that!" I kept my voice low too, if only to prove to the bastard he couldn't out-father me in _every_ way. "Don't you think the first thing I did was vet this story?"

"And. . ."

"And I summoned and tortured a dozen demons, and every one of them knew about Sam."

"Any supernatural creature worth its salt has heard of you and your boys."

"That's not what I meant and you know it. They all _knew_ him. Said he was one of the big topics in hell, said many of them thought he was the favorite."

"Favorite for what?" Bobby grimaced, as if he hated to ask the question—hated to encourage me.

"Most of them wouldn't say," I said, "Might not have even known, but one, one let something slip."

I took a deep breathe. I'd never said the words aloud, and some deep, irrational part of me thought that if I did, it would make them come true.

"Yes . . ." Bobby said, impatience disguising his unease.

"One of them called him the Boy King," I whispered, not for the boys' sake this time, but for mine. I couldn't say the words any louder, "I was bathing him in holy water, and in the midst of the screams, he screamed that the Boy King would set him free."

"Set the demon free, from where?"

"From hell, I guess. Maybe even from me . . . plenty of guys in 'Nam called on God to save them when they sure has hell knew he wouldn't show."

"I see," Bobby sank back in his chair, not even bothering with the whiskey anymore. "Is there anything else?"

"Don't you think that's enough?"

Bobby nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the wall behind me as his brain worked over the new information.

" _Well_?" I finally demanded.

"Well, what are you gonna do?"

"Keep my boy safe," I growled, "No matter what."

Bobby rolled his eyes, "So you've been sayin' for the last seventeen years. Got anything clearer than that?"

"Goin' to start focusin' on demons. Leave the boys out of it though. They can handle low-level stuff while . . ."

"While you handle the big guys on your own. Genius idea, Winchester."

"Well I'm sure as hell not gonna push them into this!" I said, "Especially not Sam!"

"Which reminds me . . . you gonna tell Sam why you think a demon just tried to use him as a paper shredder?"

I snorted, "Hell no!"

"And why not?" Bobby crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, daring me to answer.

"I can't lay that on my own kid!" I said, "I can't tell him that . . ."

"That you think he's gonna go dark side," Bobby interrupted, "That's what this is about, isn't it. Some demons start whisperin' in your ear, and you think Sam's gonna go all anti-Christ."

I stared at my empty glass for a long time, "That's what they're sayin'."

"Screw the demons, John! Look at your son! If you would spend ten minutes with that boy aside from barkin' goddamned orders at him, you'd see that what you're suggestin' is fucking ridiculous!"

"That's not how demons work and you know it!" I jabbed a finger at him, "You _know_ they take all that is good in this world. They take the only pure things in this fucking cesspool of a world and they _twist_ them, they _turn_ them until there's nothing good left! Until they're as dark and twisted as the deepest pits in hell!" I slammed my fist on the table, "But that is not going to be my son. I'm not going to let them take Sam. No matter what!"

"And what, exactly, are you gonna do to stop them?" Bobby's voice went cold.

I felt the rage drain out of me, "Whatever I have to. I'll do whatever it takes . . . even if I have to . . ."

"Have to what?" there was a dangerous edge to Bobby's voice now. I recognized it from the times we confronted monsters together.

"Have to kill him, Bobby," I croaked, "I hope to God it never comes to it, and I'll blow my own brains out if I have to, but if I have to kill him to keep him safe . . ."

I never even saw the blow until I was sprawled on the floor and Bobby was standing over me, white with fury, "You son of a bitch!" he hissed, "You selfish, self-righteous son of a bitch! How could you say that? I could you even _think_ it? About your own son!"

"You think I like it?" I pulled myself to my feet and drew near so that I was practically spitting in his face, "You think I _like_ thinking about this? You think I've slept these past two weeks, with these thoughts running through my brain? That I'll be too late, that I won't think of something, _anything_ else!"

"I think you're right," Bobby growled, grabbing collar of my jacket, "I think you're right, that demons take what is good in this world and twist it to their own ends. That's the only fucking way I can understand how a _father_ could stand here and tell me he's willing to kill his own _son_ , how he'd even _think_ of it . . . all because of a few demonic rumors!"

"This is bigger than me, Bobby!" I shouted, "This is bigger than me, or Sam, or Dean, or even Mary! That demon called him the Boy King for fucks sake! And you said what happened to Mary is more evil than anything you've ever heard of! We're talking huge here Bobby! We're talking apocalyptic huge!"

"And you think you're God," he growled, and, for a second, his eyes blazed and I swore he was going to kill me, right then and there, "You think you're God, to think you have any right to play with your son's life like this."

He shoved me away. I stumbled—from shock and whiskey—but caught myself before my ass hit the floor again.

"Listen to me Bobby . . ."

"No you listen to me!" Bobby whirled around to face me again, "We are done! I'm done helping you! I'm done listening to your pathetic excuses to justify what you've put those boys through, for what you want to put them through! I am not going to let your obsession over something that happened seventeen years ago _kill_ one of the only two good things you've got left in your pathetic life! You hear me, Winchester! We are done!"

"Dad?"

Both Bobby and I spun around. Dean was standing at the bottom of the stairs, fully dressed, gun in hand. He must've heard us shouting, and got up to make sure it was just us two drunk, stupid old men and not something more dangerous.

Although we were plenty dangerous by ourselves.

"Sorry, Dean," I said before Bobby could open his mouth, "Bobby and I were just having a little disagreement."

"Right," the edges of Dean's mouth tightened a little, but he looked away, clearly deciding not to call me out on it.

Always such a good soldier.

"Sam awake?" I asked.

Dean nodded, "Woke before me. Think the meds have mostly worn off."

"Okay," I nodded, "Well, you pack up and help get him to the car. We're leaving in fifteen."

Dean opened his mouth to argue or question, looking at me, then at Bobby, whose face was a strange mixture of fury and pain. Finally, he closed his mouth and nodded, turning back up the stairs with a last, troubled glance at the two of us.

This was the only place he and Sam ever approached to calling home, and he was smart enough to know we wouldn't be back.

"You're lucky he doesn't know," Bobby said coldly, "If he did, he'd beat your ass then load up Sam and disappear so fast it'd make your head spin."

I knew he was right. "Don't you dare tell them," I growled, though I had no idea how I would make good on the threat.

"I won't," Bobby said, after a pregnant pause, "For now, and that's only because those boys' heads don't need to be screwed up even more than they are." He took a step closer, stabbing a finger at my heart, "But you listen to me, you bastard, if I catch wind, and I mean if a worm overheard a bird sayin' you are even thinkin' about pulling the kind of shit you were just tellin' me about, you'll be getting a lot more than a punch in the face!"

Clenching my teeth, I said, "I understand."

"Bobby?" It was Sam this time, voice high and strained with exhaustion and pain, "What's going on?" He glanced between the two of us, "What did he do?"

"Sorry to wake you, kid," Bobby said, turning to face him. No one had looked at Sam like that since Mary.

For some reason, that just boiled my blood more, "We gotta go," I said, "Get in the car."

"But . . ." Sam looked almost frantically between Bobby and me. I could see the wheels turning into his head, trying to figure out what happened as Dean also descended the stairs, their duffle bags in hand.

Sam looked straight at me, "What the hell happened?"

I opened my mouth to beat that kid—my Sammy, oh God. How could I have said what I said about him? How could I have said what I said and still _mean_ it?—down, but before I could, Bobby said in that same, practically gentle voice.

"It's alright kid. Just a spat between me and your old man is all. Go ahead and get yourself in the car. Don't want you to strain those cuts more than you have to."

Sam opened his mouth, ready to argue again, when Dean nudged his arm, "Come on, Sammy."

He hesitated, looking between Dean and Bobby and paying about as much attention to me as he would a hat stand, but nodded.

"Alright," Bobby moved towards my boys and wrapped his arms around Dean, "Take care of yourself, kid, and your brother."

Dean startled at the embrace, but returned it as much as the duffles would allow, "Course Bobby, you too."

"Same goes for you, Sam," Bobby said, turning to my younger son and carefully wrapping his arms around him, ever mindful of his bandages.

"Sure thing," Sam bit his lip as he tucked his shoulder over Bobby's, eyes gleaming. Dean coughed and looked away, but I caught a glimpse of wetness in his own eye.

Bobby did not hug. They both knew what this meant.

"Alright, I said before my own throat started clogging up, "Let's get goin'."

They obeyed, neither of them looking at me as they headed slowly for the door. I followed without a word, and Bobby went after me, practically stepping on my heels.

"Now you listen to me," he said, grabbing my arm once we reached the door. The boys paused and looked back at us, and I know Bobby was avoiding their gaze just as much as I was when he said, "Those boys are welcome here anytime, but you, John Winchester, you better get your shit together before you darken my doorstep again, you hear, or I'm gonna fill your ass with buckshot!"

"Fuck you, Singer," I growled.

I turned and brushed past the boys. I felt them linger, glancing back at the man they still called their uncle when they thought neither of us could hear.

We drove the eight hours straight that night without even Metallica to fill the silence.

* * *

The verses in Genesis reference the famous story where God commands Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Abraham obeys and is seconds from killing his son when an angel intervenes and explains that God wanted to test Abraham's faith.


End file.
